Risk
by ephemereal
Summary: Best to hope for a dream and prepare for reality. Oneshot.


Author's Note: So I'm not updating Facing this weekend. Sorry guys. It's homecoming week and my show week, and I've got a couple little things in that fic that need to be worked out. So um…you're stuck with this rather strange oneshot instead. Hope you enjoy.

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Risk 

"I'm finished," storms Constantine in an uncharacteristic show of emotion. He punctuates the remark by slamming the door, something else that doesn't usually appear in his repertoire of reactions. Angela stumbles out of the path of the door, into the apartment though he'd sooner she be going the other way, soaking wet and shivering in the industrial strength airconditioning his apartment inherits from the rest of the bowling alley. It is raining, of course, because the Fates in John Constantine's life seem to have a sense of humor—if he is unsure whether to pay attention to what is going on, he only need glance at the sky. Somehow, every important night in his memory to date is also graced by the presence of a storm.

"Why?" snaps Angela, gritting her teeth because they are chattering. She acts angry because she is scared, a response Constantine has already learned to recognize. "Because you fucked up, now I have to pay?"

"Angela—" He hears the anger rise in his own voice, half-feels, half-hears the argument and inevitable break coming on, but somehow can manage to feel only completely numb.

"What?" The word is a challenge, and she has already begun to regather her armor for this war.

"You can't just go…charging in like that. You can't _ever _get careless. You should have died tonight." In his mind he can see her diving to pick up where he has lost control, acting purely on instinct and desperation, without the slightest clue of how such an operation should actually be performed. Hears her voice on his phone barely two days ago now, telling him that it's finally happened, she's finally misjudged, fired in the wrong instant and at the wrong target. Five fellow officers slaughtered at the hand of two well-placed snipers. Her mistake, her price to pay.

"But I didn't," she says firmly, in a voice which suggests that perhaps it would have been better if she had.

"I tried to help you," he insists, suddenly feeling his reserve beginning to crack. She is staring at him, and as always her gaze burns. "You feel like getting careless, get the hell away from me. I'm not your goddamn rope."

"John…" She takes a step toward him, and he recoils, though he is not entirely sure what he is expecting. "Say whatever you like, so you can keep your arrogant bastard image intact. I saved that boy's life tonight. And yours."

Again he sees the night's exorcism, just a routine job. Sees himself distracted, torn to pieces between the mother's screams and the scared look on Angela's face. Watches in agonizing slow motion as he loses control and is seized round the throat, knocked to the floor. Sees his own skin begin to darken as the boy's body sags limply off the table they've been using as a makeshift altar. Sees Angela darting to his side armed with nothing but hellbent determination and raw power.

"It's not that simple! There are precautions you have to take. You got lucky, Angela. But it was stupid. You took a fucking stupid risk and you could have gotten us all killed." This last is forced through clenched teeth, more of a growl than actual speech.

"I don't sell out my friends." Her voice is low, poisonous. He knows he has hit a nerve, and she is striking right back. Aiming straight for the heart. It hurts all the same.

The next thing he knows, he has her by the shoulders, is holding on far too tight, but somehow cannot get his own muscles to relax. He is close enough that he can see a vein pulsing in her temple, her eyes dancing with fear. Liquid pools of green.

"Oh god," she murmurs, shocked at herself. "I'm sorry." And simple as that, the spell is broken.

Constantine sighs heavily, takes a couple of steps away, and sinks onto the couch, pressing his face into one hand. His skin seems to be on fire, the world burning and spinning around him. Angela shudders violently and hugs herself. He feels a lurching nausea at the gesture, realizing how badly he has violated her trust.

"I'm sorry," she says again. Her voice is muted, and he can tell she is on the verge of tears again. "I'm going straight to Hell for…everything. I can feel it." She shivers again and can't seem to stop, shedding her wet jacket and revealing his fingermarks on the pale skin of her bare arms. For a moment Constantine is certain he is going to be sick.

"I…" he mumbles uselessly, realizing that there is absolutely nothing he can say that will be comforting. "I can't…" He shrugs helplessly, hating himself for it. "I hurt you."

Angela looks at her shoulders gingerly, shakes her head. "I can't feel anything. It's just…god, it's so cold."

"You're learning to feel them," he says matter-of-factly, glad to be back on terrain he can deal with. "Their presence. That you will get used to."

"I don't think I will." She pauses, hugs herself, looking suddenly very small in the midst of the darkened apartment. When she speaks again he's unsure whether he's really heard or just sensed her thoughts. "Hold me."

Barely daring to breathe, Constantine gets up and goes over to her. Angela has a look of dazed uncertainty in her eyes, and he gets the sudden feeling that he will lose her if he makes too much noise. She lets out a long rush of breath as he cautiously slips his arms around her. The contact momentarily turns the world on its head, and Constantine closes his eyes very hard as the sensation passes.

"John…I can't do this," she murmurs, and he silently echoes her words, though for thoroughly different reasons. Her arms are around his waist and he can feel her heart pounding, the hitch of her breath as she desperately tries to regain control. She smells of rainwater and earth, the sulfuric fumes that stick close to their heels most days now lost in the storm.

"You'll learn. You just need experience." For a moment he wonders whether she will be brought to this level of vulnerability often now. The selfish part of him, the part that is very much distracted by the press of her breasts against his chest, hopes she will be.

"No, I mean…John, I can't be working with you like this and not…I can't keep pretending that I don't…" She trails off, sighs in frustration, pulls away just a little. Constantine takes a long breath as the world begins to spin again. He knows what she is trying to say, wishes he could get the same words through his own tight throat, but they are a luxury he as yet cannot afford.

"Angela," he says, forcing his voice to be firm but not disengaging from her embrace. The lie he is about to construct brings acid to his throat, but it is a necessary step. "You are a job to me. That's all. I agreed to train you. Nothing else."

"I'm not blind, John." The anger is back and she stands up, facing him with arms crossed in front of her like a shield. "Say what you need to say. All it tells me is how damn scared you are."

"It's for your own good," he insists, standing up too. Trying to believe it himself. His insides are such a tangle of rampant emotions he can no longer be sure whether the blatant lies spewing from his mouth are out of concern or selfishness. Never a good place to be. Disastrous when the work really matters.

"Is it?" she asks, eyes suddenly shining. "Is it good if I'm hurting all the time? If you are too? If we can't even look at one another straight without wondering what subtext we're missing?"

"I…"

"I'd rather take my chances with the truth than live a lie."

"All right, say I was to go along with this truth of yours," says Constantine, "what do you want from me? You told me yourself you're a good Catholic girl. You think I'm going to marry you, Angela?"

"I never said that!" She sounds frustrated, and he notices how her eyes flash when she's upset. How pretty it makes her look. "How do I even know what I want when you won't try?"

Constantine pauses, surprised at this. He's been stuck on the thought that she'll take a mile the second he gives an inch.

"And if it doesn't work?" He realizes belatedly how much like a commitment this sounds, but isn't sure he should regret it anyway.

"Then…at least we tried," she says crossing to stand beside him again and hugging herself. The vulnerability is still there, but well-disguised now. "I'm not an idealist either." She manages a weak smile, and for a moment Constantine is tempted to return it.

"God forbid," he mutters, and her smile widens.

"So?"

"So?" He is stalling, mostly to see what kind of reaction he can get from her.

"All right." There is a devilish light in her eyes now, and he is suddenly nervous in the way that only she can make him. "See you around. Two can play this game, John." Angela turns to leave but he catches her by the arm, pulls her back toward him and kisses her soundly.

"Jesus," she whispers, "I'll have to be mean to you more often."

Constantine smiles just a little and sits back into the armchair, pulling her down onto his lap. She turns and gives him a questioning look, then shrugs and leans back against him.

"Angela." He works his fingers over the taut muscles of her back and shoulders, turning serious again. "What you did tonight was impressive. But you can't take risks like that."

"I can't just let you be hurt," she insists. "Not when there's something I can do about it."

"I need you to listen to me." Constantine swallows hard, staggered by the truth of what he is about to tell her. He has suspected since the moment he first met her, has known for nearly a month now, but somehow vocalizing his realization makes it seem so much more serious. "There's a reason these things are happening to you. This isn't going to be easy to hear, but you need to know."

"What?" She catches his hand and laces her fingers with his.

"Your power…you are so much stronger than anyone I've ever seen. Angela, you have the potential to be one of the most powerful psychics this world has ever seen." He feels her entire body tighten against him, can practically see the blow he has just dealt her. "That's why you can't risk yourself. In the long run, Angela…you're far more important than I am. I'll help you as far as I can. But you can't think for a minute that we're equals in this."

"John, I can't…I won't accept that." She pulls away, stands in front of him again.

"You have to. For all of us."

"I…" She looks like she's going to cry again, and Constantine feels positively sick with guilt. He stands up and puts his arms around her again.

"You'll know when it's time," he says, wishing he had something more convincing to say. "You'll be ready. And until then we can…until then, you'll know where to find me."

Angela nods weakly, kisses him very gently and then pulls away, wiping at her eyes.

"I um…I'm gonna go," she says at last. She sounds thoroughly defeated. "I just need a little time to work this out."

Constantine forces himself to nod. He doesn't ask whether she still wants to chance the truth with him. Doesn't want to know.

"Be safe," he says, and watches her go.

Afterward he sits in his cracked red armchair and watches the rain come down outside. Thinks about Angela driving home in the storm. Tells himself he cannot worry. She will always be in danger and he cannot be there all the time. Better not to go there.

Best to hope for a dream and prepare for reality.

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